Memories
by Justice65
Summary: The event took place in the middle of a park on the outskirts of London. A wall stretched for miles around, the names of all the people who had died had been etched into it. "It's amazing isn't it?" I nodded "yeah; amazing, and horrible." (A memorial service for the victims of Clive Dove's war machine.)


_This just came to me a few minutes ago, so I hope it's alright!_

_I do not own Professor Layton, or any and all recognizable characters from the series in this story._

Memories

The events of last year were as fresh as if they had occurred yesterday.

_…_

_The atmosphere was laced with terror. The stampede to escape the massive, mobile war machine parading through the streets of London smothered me; my small body was covered with bruises and scrapes. I clutched my elderly mother's hand tightly; I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't lose her. I glanced at her, she was having trouble breathing; she had been a smoker all her life. I felt her let go of my hand, "go." She said, panting "Mother, I know it's hard, but you have to keep running." I begged her, trying to grab her hand. "I can't run anymore Lillian, go!"_

_"Mother!" The crowd began to push me away from her, I frantically reached for her hand, but she took a step back. Pieces of rubble fell from the buildings and onto the ground as the war machine stepped closer and closer to us. She looked up, perhaps praying, and then looked at me. "Lilly, go" she said firmly, but at the same time quietly "leave me." _

_"Mommy!" I screamed as the crowd pulled me away from her. It would be the last time I would ever see my mother again. _

_…_

I choked back tears. The memory stung, even to this day.

It had taken the police three days to find her body among the rubble; I remembered seeing her small figure, lying on a steel slab in the morgue; bloody, broken. Having to tell the examiner that yes, this was my mother. _One year, _I thought, staring at the black mourning gown lying on the bed, _I can't believe it's been one year. _A wave of bitter hatred pulsed through me, for Clive Dove, and his cronies. I could almost hear my mother scolding me for this; _"no", _she would say_, "we must be slow to hate, and quick to forgive."_

I walked solemnly over to the mahogany bookshelf in the corner of my room, and picked up the small, black box sitting on the top shelf. It held a single strand of white pearls; they had belonged to my mother. The event had been titled The Fifteen Minutes of Madness, and today, I would mourn alongside all of London, and all who had been touched by it.

…

The event took place in the middle of a park on the outskirts of London. A wall stretched for miles around, the names of all the people who had died had been etched into the wall. "JOHN ADDLEMAN" "JESSICA RUTHERFORD" "RUDOLPH JACOBSON" photographs, newspaper clippings, and letters from loved ones had been nailed to this wall, an enormous pile of red roses sat below it. I searched up and down the wall until I finally found the name I was looking for "CLARISSA FERRIS". I held a lantern under one arm; in a few minutes, we were going to release lanterns into the air, one for every person who had died.

A could feel the slight brush of someone coming to stand next to me. I glanced to my right; this man's age could have ranged from anywhere from his forties to his sixties. He had sickly pale skin and dark circles were etched under his blue eyes, as such, he did not look well in the black suit he was wearing. His hair was long and grey, his cheeks were sunken in, and even with the thick, black suit it was easy to tell that not much skin covered his bones. He clutched a red rose in his long, thin fingers; he tossed it onto the pile.

He glanced at me and cleared his throat, "it's amazing isn't it." He said, staring at the wall sadly. I nodded "yeah; amazing, and horrible." We stood in silence for several minutes, listening intently to the deathly silence surrounding us. "My name is Lillian" I whispered, "Dimitri." He replied.

The former Prime Minister, Bill Hawks, took his place at the front of the ceremony, along with our current Prime Minister, Alistair Doyle following closely behind. Dimitri clenched his fist when he saw Bill Hawks. I wondered to myself what his quarrel with him was, but didn't dare to ask.

"Good evening, everyone" said Hawks, addressing the crowd as solemnly as he could manage. "This time last year, our city was attacked. We are called here today to remember their deaths, but also to celebrate their lives. For they're not really gone, as long as we remember them."

It was time to release the lanterns now. I heard the_ crack_, _crack, crack _of hundreds of matches being struck as we lit our lanterns. I looked over to Dimitri, who did nothing but stare at the pitch black, night sky. "Do you need a match?" I asked.

He nodded "thank you."

We lit the lanterns, and released them into the air at the same time. I watched the lantern fly away, getting smaller, and smaller. I glanced at Dimitri, for once that day, he was not tense. His tired eyes were closed, his arms hung limply at his sides, his chin faced the sky. He was totally, at peace. "Goodbye, Claire." He whispered.

Not saying another word, he turned, and walked away.

I would never see Dimitri again, but I would never forget the expression of peace as the lantern disappeared into the night sky.


End file.
